Rain
by IncomprehensibleSparks
Summary: Romano hasn't seen Spain for forty years. Then he turns up at the front door, wanting... well, something. Romano isn't sure what.  Set after the unification of Italy. SpaMano, historic fic, angsty fluff.


**Disclaimer: Hetalia does not belong to me. I apologise for the choppiness of this fic. Writing while sick is never a good idea. **

**July 15****th****, 1875**

"Fratello… Fratello, wake up!"

Romano coughed, and slowly opened his bleary eyes. His younger brother was hovering over him, smiling widely, auburn curl bobbing in an unseen wind.

"What… what… whatimesit?" slurred Romano, unable to stop his sleep-hazed words from blurring together like slurry.

"Ve~" exclaimed Veneziano, "around four thirty!"

Wait, _what? _

Oh for the love of all that's holy…

"_WHY THE FUCK DID YOU WAKE ME UP AT FOUR THIRTY IN THE GODDAMN MORNING?" _

Feliciano laughed, but his hazel eyes shifted downward. He looked almost guilty. "Well…"

"_Well _what?"

"You have a visitor."

Romano frowned, pushing himself up into a sitting position. No one ever came to visit him, anymore, aside from his brother.

"Who is it?"

But Feliciano had already left the room.

Romano cursed, and heaved himself reluctantly out of bed.

He did have to admit, though, that the view from his bedroom window was even more beautiful at dawn. Scattered olive trees, waiting to be picked. A narrow, cobbled pathway, gleaming in the light of the rising sun. Some of his citizens were already awake: he could see their faint shadows, moving gracefully among the crops.

But still poor. They were still so poor.

Romano's lips pursed, and he turned away, heading for his small bathroom. The tankard of water, which he had used the previous night, was still there. He splashed his face, catching a glimpse of himself in the cracked mirror above the washbasin.

He was exhausted. It showed clearly through the bags under his eyes, the tightness of his lips, even though he'd gotten a decent night's sleep. No amount of rest on his part would alleviate the tiredness, though. That was the true essence of being a nation.

Slowly, Romano left the room, shutting the fragile wooden door behind him. He wandered down several narrow corridors without really thinking about where he was going, but following the sound of excited conversation.

The noise came from the kitchen. Romano paused, wondering exactly who had come to visit. It was Veneziano who had all of the visitors: France, Austria and Hungary...

"I'll go and see if Romano's ready yet," he said, in broken, accented English.

Then the door swung open.

Their eyes locked: green into green.

Romano's mouth fell open, searching for words, but they didn't come. What words could one use to describe a person they hadn't seen for forty, fifty, _sixty_ years?

What words could describe _him? _

Spain was just as shell-shocked. He wasn't gaping like a mindless fish, but staring at his former ward with almost burning intensity, curiosity.

Veneziano's nervous laugh broke the silent connection. "I'll just… go, then. Have a good time catching up."

Spain and Romano ignored him.

A few minutes later, the former spoke.

"I… Romano… How are you?"

"I'm fine," he replied, automatically. What a mundane question.

From across the room, Spain's green eyes continued to pierce him. "You don't look too well. Have you been sleeping properly? Eating?"

"It's not me," he replied, curtly. "It's my country."

"Ah…" Spain nodded. "I'm sure you will get better, soon."

"No you're not," said Romano. "What did you come here for? What do you want?"

Spain smiled. The movement was only slight, but it was sincere. "I came to see you, Romano."

Romano didn't reply. Wordlessly, he turned, and left the room.

He woke, three hours later, to the smell of eggs cooking over a fire.

Upon re-entering the kitchen, Romano was waylaid by his exuberant brother, who shepherded him out the door and onto the back porch.

Spain was still there, sitting in a simple chair, gazing out across the vineyards. Storm clouds were gathering on the horizon, and the distant sky was awash with crimson sunlight.

There was something different, Romano noted, about his posture. It was less… domineering… less _proud _than before. There was something different about his captivating eyes, as well. More serious. More worldly.

He was also older than before.

While there had previously been a massive age gap between them, Romano had grown since Unification. He would have been classed as an average nineteen year old boy, where Spain was now around twenty three.

Midway through his assessment, Romano noticed a book, clutched in his right hand.

Spain followed the Italian's gaze. "Ah, this?"

He passed it to Romano, who caught it with trembling hands. He stared down at the cover.

The book was written in Italian. He could make out a few words. "_You." "Tomato." _But the rest was a scrambled heap of gibberish.

Romano's face burned, and he passed the book back to Spain. Then he sat down, bunching his legs up to his chest, and closing his eyes…

"You can't read, can you?"

…which shot open a second later.

"Of course I can read!" Romano scoffed. "What a fucking stupid question."

"You used to be able to," Spain continued, as if he hadn't heard him. "I taught you. You used to know Spanish, English, Italian…"

"I only know what my people know," said Romano, lips quivering. "And my people know nothing."

"Veneziano could read it," said Spain, quietly.

"Veneziano and I are not the same person, though we are now the same country."

"I know that," said Spain. "You two… you two are so different."

Romano laughed humourlessly. "I'm not sure whether to thank you or punch you in the face."

"Breakfast's ready!" sang Veneziano as he came out onto the porch, laden with trays.

Then they said grace.

Romano ate mechanically, finishing way before his brother or their 'guest' did.

"What are you two going to do today?" asked Veneziano, smiling around the table at them. "This is our last day off, you know. We have meetings tomorrow with the Prime Minister, and diplomats from Austria-Hungary…"

"I'm going to take a walk," said Romano.

"Can I come?" asked Spain.

"You can if you want, bastard. I'm just going 'round, delivering food. Nothing exciting."

Spain only beamed.

Romano rolled his eyes in annoyance.

"Wow…" Spain marvelled at the hundreds of wicker baskets, stowed neatly away in the kitchen cupboard. "These are incredible! Did you pack them all yourself?"

Romano nodded, pursing his lips. "They aren't as good as my people deserve, but I don't have anything else to give them."

There was a moment's pause, during which Spain assessed Romano as he pulled parcel after parcel off his shelves.

"You really care about your people, don't you?" said Spain, very softly.

The only outward sign that Romano had heard the comment came from his newly hunched shoulders, and the faint blush dusting his high cheekbones.

"How many can you carry at once?"

"Around seven of them," Romano replied. "You better help today, though." _You owe me that much…_

"Sure!" said Spain, hooking four baskets on each arm, and following the Italian out the door, and into the fields.

They visited fifteen houses. Their residents took the food packages with murmured words of thanks, accompanied by brilliant smiles. Romano always smiled back: nodding, and telling them how glad he was that they were looking well, how glad he was that he could help.

Spain watched on, wide-eyed, at the nation who had almost instantly become a different person: kinder, warmer, friendlier. He wished that Romano would always act that way. It was so much cuter… _nicer, _rather.

"What are you staring at?" Romano would snap, after every door had closed.

Spain would avert his eyes, a slight frown playing around his lips.

That evening, after Romano had helped the farmers and made more food packages for the next day, the pair went for a walk. More specifically, _Romano _went for a walk, and Spain tagged along.

The sky was growing steadily darker. The lingering storm clouds were backlit with red, and a few stars were scattered amongst them.

"Your land is very beautiful," Spain said, without thinking.

Romano rounded on him, face heating furiously, eyes flashing. "What the _fuck _is that supposed to mean, you sick_ bastardo_?"

Spain backtracked hastily, smiling falsely, nervously rubbing the back of his neck. "Nothing, Romano! It means nothing! I was just commenting on the weather."

"Why did you come here?"

They had stopped in a small garden. Far off, in the distance, Spain could see Romano's house. The windows were softly lit by candles.

"I don't know what you expect me to say, Roma," he said, tiredly. "I came here to see you."

"After forty years, you finally come to see me?" said Romano, arching an eyebrow.

Spain couldn't think of a response.

"You know," Romano continued, conversationally, "I have checked up on you, before now. Your boss never said that you couldn't come and visit, did he?

"You could have come to help me _any _time. There's no line of people outside my front door, waiting to see me."

He let out a short, bitter laugh.

"But that's just like you, isn't it? You've been doing _fine _until now. And _then _you remember me. The fucking _saddest, _most_ screwed up _excuse for a country, and you want to come and cry on my fucking shoulder! I'm not doing… so well… myself… Veneziano's alright… It's just me…"

He wasn't crying. His face was entirely stoic. That made his words all the more terrible for Spain to hear.

"So… obviously, I assume that you really don't give a shit about me.

"Why are you here? Why are you here _now?" _

"It couldn't _possibly_ have been because I thought you didn't _want _me around anymore!" Now _Spain _was shouting. The anger of a century, built up inside him, spewing from his lips like poison.

"You've never exactly _warmed _to me, Romano! 'Chigii' this, and 'Bastardo' that, and 'Fuck you, stupid bastard!' You can sit here, and feel sorry for yourself for as long as you want. That doesn't change the fact that _you left me!"_

Romano had frozen. Now the tears were coming.

As the nation cried, so did the land. The clouds cracked, and rain came tumbling down from the sky, soaking their hair, and drowning the earth.

Romano's lips were moving. Spain couldn't make out the words.

He stepped tentatively closer, listening.

"_I'm sorry… I'm sorry… I'm sorry… I'msorryI'msorryI'msorrysorrysorrysorry…" _

A single second passed.

Spain turned, and left the garden.

Romano found his way back home. The candles had been blown out – by Feliciano, he assumed – so he had to fumble his way down the corridor, and into his bed.

He stared at the ceiling.

He didn't know how to feel.

He didn't know what to think.

The next morning, his cheerful brother made breakfast, and Romano was shuffled out onto the patio.

Spain was sitting, staring out across the vineyards, with a book resting in his lap.

Romano sat beside him.

They didn't speak.

But when their fingers touched, Romano didn't pull away.

**AN. Did you like it? Come on… Don't be lazy… Please leave me a review, even if it's critical. **

***Notes: This story is based on historical events. Venetia and Rome were unified with… well, the rest of Italy… in 1966 and 1970, respectively. Even after the unification, Italy was in a pretty sad state: the illiteracy rate of southern Italians had reached 91% (while Northern Italy was at about 70%), and most of Romano's citizens were farmers, and quite poor… famine and ill-health ensued… Anyway, end of little history lesson.**


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